Blood & Vows

The Blood Ring

The next evening, Ivy stood before an antique mirror in the De Rossi mansion’s opulent dressing room. Gold sconces bathed the space in a soft glow, casting her reflection in layers of light and shadow. In her hands was a small velvet box, deceptively delicate for what it held inside.

The moment she opened it, the weight of her new world hit her in full.

Inside was a ring.

Not delicate. Not shimmering. No diamonds or graceful scrollwork.

It was solid platinum, thick and cold. The De Rossi family crest—an encircling serpent pierced by a dagger—was etched into the surface, the details so sharp it almost looked wet with blood. There was a quiet menace to it as if it carried the ghosts of everyone who had worn it before her.

"This belonged to my grandmother," Luca said behind her, his voice steady, almost distant.

Ivy didn’t turn. "She wore this?"

"Until she was gunned down at a peace summit she organized. It was meant to end a war. It started a bloodbath instead."

Ivy’s throat tightened as she closed the box carefully, almost reverently. It felt less like an accessory and more like a weapon.

"You want me to wear a blood curse on my hand?" she asked, finally turning.

Luca stepped forward from the shadows. He wore a charcoal suit that looked stitched from the night itself. His tie was undone, the top button open, revealing the strong line of his throat—casual but coiled with tension.

"No," he said. "I want you to wear power."

Ivy met his gaze, searching for any sign of irony. There was none. It was just fire and ice, as always. He wasn’t dressing her up for beauty. He was branding her as his.

And yet… there was something else in his voice. Respect, maybe. Or calculation.

"You walk into this marriage carrying a name stronger than bullets," Luca added. "Every rival who sees this ring will think twice before crossing you."

Her fingers curled tighter around the box. “Or see it as a challenge.”

Luca smirked. “Then let them try.”

There was a moment of silence.

Then, slowly, Ivy opened the box again. She slipped the ring onto her finger.

It was heavier than it looked.

The chill of the metal seemed to sink into her bones.

Her reflection looked different now—harder, older, touched by a shadow of war she hadn’t asked for but would no longer run from.

Behind her, Luca’s voice was quiet. “You look like a queen.”

“I feel like a soldier,” she replied.

“That too.”

Later that evening, the great hall of the De Rossi estate was transformed. Candlelight flickered across marble floors and velvet-covered tables. Champagne flowed. Armed men lined the walls in tailored suits, their presence both decorative and deadly.

The engagement ceremony wasn’t a celebration.

It was a power move.

The heads of the De Rossi empire arrived one by one—distant cousins, lieutenants, old men who once ran ports and weapons shipments. Elegant women with diamond eyes, their smiles more dangerous than their husbands' guns. Ivy recognized none of them, but all of them studied her like she was a lion brought into a wolf’s den.

She stood beside Luca, her chin high, her spine unyielding. The ring glittered coldly on her hand.

When the toasts began, Luca raised his glass and delivered a speech in his native tongue, sharp with Sicilian undertones. Ivy understood none, but the words were smooth, dangerous, and final.

Then, one by one, the men came forward to kiss the De Rossi ring.

And after, they kissed hers.

It was symbolic.

A gesture of allegiance.

Or submission.

She didn’t flinch. Not when a man with prison tattoos touched her hand with icy lips. Not when a matriarch with a spider’s smile leaned in and whispered, “You're braver than your mother was.”

Ivy didn’t ask what that meant.

She just held her breath and survived the gauntlet.

Only when the last glass was emptied and the final violin note faded into silence did she let her shoulders drop.

Luca came to her then, offering not a smile but a nod. “You carried yourself well.”

“You mean I didn’t run.”

“No,” he said. “You stood taller than most of my men would have.”

For a moment, Ivy almost believed he admired her.

But admiration in his world wasn’t affection. It was a calculation. Value.

A queen was only loved until she stopped being useful.

“Tomorrow,” Luca said, “we plan the wedding.”

Ivy looked down at the ring on her finger.

A marriage is born from betrayal.

A future carved from blood.

And yet… she wasn’t afraid.

Not anymore.

“I’ll be ready,” she said.

But she wasn’t thinking about dresses or vows.

She was thinking about war.